Not throwing in the Towel just yet - Diane's World Part 1
by Awatere11
Summary: This is for Dibart ... a good friend and a fellow Woodie who needs a gift right now ... I can only offer this, were I closer it would be someting else. An Alt Verse where Ianto is a Hunter, Tosh is handler within the Torchwood Agency. One night where Ianto is on a Weevil hunt and encounters a woman who surprises him, not easy to do. Hope you like this my friend xxxx


OK, so this Alternate Verse has Ianto as a Weevil Hunter, roaming about sort of like our boys in Supernatural looking for the creepy things that go bump in the night, mostly Weevils as they seem the most prevalent these days. He comes from a long line of Hunters, his mama was a hunter, his Taddy and his Grandy were hunters … Rhiannon was before settling down. The Agency for Hunters is called Torchwood has handlers for the Hunters, Tosh is his. Owen is another hunter that the others are unsure how to handle at all really.

Jack is the stay at home dad, patiently waiting for those times Ianto doesn't feel the need to kill something, their relationship one of affection. There are only mentions of him in this as this night is all about Ianto and a pretty stranger that has her own problems.

This story is for a lovely friend and I hope it is well received (Thinking of you Dibart) … just a short piece where Ianto is off on one if his night hunts and everything turns to custard … as it usually does in the witching hour.

* * *

…..

Trying to get blood out of clothing is a major pain in the arse. Generally speaking, Ianto Harkness-Jones finds it's better to avoid getting it on himself entirely, but he also remembers what his Grandy used to say: _we make plans, and the Gods laugh_.

Appropriate, considering how he met his grisly end. But that's another sotry.

So he's learned a few tricks just in case he finds himself splattered in blood.

Like tonight.

First, time is of the essence. The longer blood soaks into clothes—like his favourite pair of jeans—the harder it is to get out. Once it dries, he's got a better chance of winning a thousand bucks on a scratch-off lottery ticket.

This is why he's breaking one of his mama's cardinal rules of hunting. _Don't shit where you eat._ His mother used to say it all the time, and although she had a way of misusing idioms, Ianto got the point. Even when he works under the shadow of night, it's easy to attract unwanted attention with a stray gunshot or suspicious looking tarp in the bed of his truck.

Hunting Weevils is hell on a man's wardrobe, and he's not exactly rolling in the stuff ya know. This pair is a lucky find from a consignment shop; his sister told him they ran eighty bucks or more new. And they look so good on him. He's washed them dozens of times in dozens of fluorescent-lit Laundromats around town just like this one.

They're soft and velvety under his fingers. And they've got just enough room that he can get away with a heaping pile of cheese fries after a good hunt.

So while he knows he should already be in home in bed beside Jack getting ready for another day of boring filing and coffee making at his day job in Jack's Legal Firm as his PA, he turns his truck the opposite way and finds a twenty-four-hour Laundromat a quarter mile from where he just finished a job. With the stinking, dripping evidence still under a tarp in the bed of his truck, he strips out of his jeans and changes into a pair of ratty sweatpants and oversized T-shirt.

Yeah, that's how he met Jack and it was love at first arraignment. Good having a legal eagle in the family too, lots of things you can scrape out of with that card to play.

He has enough sense to stow his concealed .45 in the glove box before grabbing his laundry bag and heading into the Laundromat.

Big Dale's All-Nite Wash seems to have seen its last update sometime when Thatcher was in office. The industrial-sized machines lining the walls are beige, and Ianto can't be sure if it's from dirt or age. Two gray plastic tables are shoved together in the middle of the open centre to make a folding area.

A change machine and a Coke machine flank the door to the unisex restroom like they're standing guard. No snack machine. Too bad. He's hungry, and the Subway on the other end of the strip mall is already closed. Be at least four hours before it opens again.

The only other person in the Laundromat is a teenage attendant in a faded red _Big Dale's_ T-shirt who's too engrossed in something on his phone to notice Ianto walking in. Oversized white headphones cover his ears. He could probably cut the change machine open with a chainsaw and escape with a duffel bag full of quarters without ever catching his attention.

All the better.

He dumps out the contents of his canvas laundry bag. A small jug of generic brand detergent thumps onto the table, followed by a spill of dirty clothes with the dark-stained jeans sitting conspicuously on top. There's a definite funk of decay and dirt coming from them.

He wrinkles his nose and shoves them aside, then sorts the rest of his laundry into lights and darks. A stained blue button down catches his eye, and he holds it up to the light.

There's a splatter of brown down the side. He braces himself for the worst, and then presses it to his nose. In his line of work, it could be anything. The fibres smell like stale coffee.

Phew.

He throws the shirt back into its pile with the darks, then loads two adjacent washers with his clothes. After dumping in a capful of detergent each, he feeds the machines a handful of quarters and leaves them.

Now his jeans.

Trick number two of blood removal: unseasoned meat tenderizer. He grew up watching his mother scrubbing stubborn stains out of his Taddy's shirts with it, and it always worked. It was really the salt, but his mother swore the tenderizer worked way better. However, the unseasoned part was important. Ianto's bond-mate, Jack once made the mistake of buying Cajun Fire seasoning when it was his turn to do the shopping, and he smelled like a steakhouse for months. Ianto didn't mind. One, he was a big fan of steak. Two, it was an exceedingly rare delight to have a blunder like that to mock Jack for, and he milked it for all it was worth. He never does this at home, you do not bring work home with you. Not now the little man is big enough to get up and wander around in the night.

Now he keeps a small jar of meat tenderizer in his laundry bag. It's nowhere near the strangest thing he has to buy on a regular basis, though it does look strange sitting on a grocery store conveyor belt along with dryer sheets and toothpaste.

Ianto grabs the plastic jar out of the bag and scans the Laundromat. There's no sink, so he heads to the single restroom with his jeans crumpled in a ball. He flips the light on.

The bathroom smells like lemon air freshener and the faintest hint of crap, like the attendant just left and tried to hide his business. He's half tempted to peek out and tell him, "Everybody poops, and now it just smells like shit-flavoured lemonade in here."

Fortunately he's able, if not one hundred percent willing, to resist temptation and mind his own business. He is not Owen after all.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. Just after midnight. It's only been forty minutes since he left Bute Park, which was the hunting ground of a family of Weevils until tonight.

Tosh tipped him off after seeing a string of news stories about mutilated ducks and geese at the park. A few days ago, someone's beloved pet poodle was found dead.

At least, what remained of it was, identified only by its discarded collar. London residents suspected a kid torturing animals—their own budding serial killer—but he strolled through the park and knew right away that he was dealing with something unnatural.

It took a day to narrow down its hunting ground to the new construction area. Most of the dead animals had been found nearby, and it only made sense. The attacks had started not long after the construction crew broke ground.

There was no graveyard near the park, but the Weevils could have been living and hunting in the woods for years without being detected. And like any wildlife, a disruption of their habitat would cause a change in their behaviour.

As far as anyone knew, the Weevils were just eating animals, and while the loss of a poodle was sad, it wasn't an emergency. But with construction crews in the park, and soon more people in the area to use the newly built amphitheatre, it was a massacre waiting to happen.

At least until Torchwood came along.

Ta-duh!

He drapes the jeans over the sink and winces. It's worse than he thought, which is pretty much the story of his life. The legs are streaked in a rainbow of stains and half-dried fluids he doesn't want to identify. This could be the start of a late-night infomercial for one of those miracle cleaning products with the manic announcers. _That's right, Susan, it can even get that stubborn Weevil bile out!_

There's the unmistakable rusty-orange hue of red clay on the knees and back pockets. Black grease smears down the left thigh. And then there's the swatch of reddish-brown down the right leg, like a mark against an Old Testament avenging angel of laundry.

If he had a lick of sense in his head, he'd wear the ugly-ass sweatpants to hunt and save his good clothes for special occasions. But no one has ever accused Ianto Jones of having an excess of slobbery, and his pride and vanity are a powerful duo.

"I need to invest in a Hazmat suit," he says to the mirror. He sighs. "Better get to scrubbing."

...

 _Four Hours Earlier_

...

Two stragglers from the construction crew have been talking for forty-five damn minutes about God only knows what. He's dubbed them Bad Tats and Pit-stains for obvious reasons. They'd better be curing Greenhouse Warming or discovering the real meaning of life for as long as they've talked after their shift. They're leaning against a white pickup dusted in red clay dust, passing a joint back and forth. He's not hopeful for the ozone layer.

Ianto huffs in exasperation and takes another sip of the high-octane energy drink from the convenience store down the road. Of course he didn't buy coffee, nowhere sells anything palatable these days. He's been sitting here in the next parking lot for an hour, slouched down in the seat with no air. The siren call of sleep keeps sneaking up on him, and he's shaken himself awake half a dozen times since he got here. Third night in a row looking for the targets, he's exhausted.

The sun is going down, and the longer these two idiots linger, the closer they get to being the main course of a Weevil feast. He doesn't want to take any unnecessary risks of exposure, and he sure doesn't want to have to come back again tomorrow night. Hoping to be on the road by midnight, he'd already checked out of the High Hill Lodge, a fine establishment for folks who don't mind a little mould on the walls and mysterious stains on the sheets.

"Don't you have wives to go home to or something?" he murmurs to himself.

Then again, maybe that's the problem. Maybe this is their way of gearing up for another battle at home. He's got his own rituals when it comes to going home to face the other half, so who is he to judge?

He's finishing off the syrupy drink by the time Bad Tats crushes the remains of the joint under his clay-caked work boots. Pit-stains gives him a manly high five and a slap on the back, and then they go their separate ways. Pit-stains climbs into the white pickup truck, while Bad Tats hitches his leg over a neon green crotch rocket and peels out in a cloud of smoke.

"Finally," Ianto mutters.

He drops the can in the plastic grocery sack and cranks the ignition. The air is still relatively cool, and he puts it on full blast. He loops around the parking lot and into the next lot, driving right into the spot Pit-stains' white truck just left vacant. Ianto slides out of the truck and into the oppressive summer heat. The cicadas are out and singing their noisy summer drone from the trees.

Sweat immediately beads on his skin. One of these days, he's gonna go somewhere that's not so damned humid. It doesn't help that he's wearing blue jeans and a heavy army jacket when it's ninety degrees outside. But in his line of work, the more skin he covers the better. An exposed leg has about the same effect on a zombie as it does a horny redneck. Might not be Weevils at all, once he walked into a Vampyre den without a second thought and was almost toast ... well ... in the end they were as it was daytime and he got some blacked-out windows smashed open but you know what I mean.

The construction area is cordoned off in flimsy orange plastic, with a sign that says _Another Quality Harwoods Construction Project_. There's not much to see yet, just a mountain of red dirt and a blue Port-a-Potty backed up to the fencing. A clay-streaked backhoe is parked at a drunken cant on the hill, like the driver got tired of trying to straighten it out and said, "To hell with it."

He walks around to the passenger's side of his truck, where he gears up. His antique Colt Commander, an engraved beauty that belonged to his Taddy, comes out of the glove box and goes into the concealed holster on his belly. No Torchwood issue gun here, Tosh asks too many questions about the paperwork.

Ivory-handled knife—also his father's—in a clipped sheath on his belt. Plastic lighter and Maglite in one pocket, and two extra clips for the Colt in the other.

After locking the cab, Ianto climbs into the bed of the truck for the rest of his equipment. His crossbow is in a zippered case there, but he'll grab it last. It was Grandy's … then Mama's. First, there's the bait, wrapped in white plastic grocery bags. When he nudges the bags with his foot, he catches a whiff of spoiled meat.

"Sweet Jesus," he says. He crouches and opens the first bag. Inside is a family-sized package of last-day markdown steaks that have been sitting outside in the sun all day to get good and smelly. The next bag holds a tall plastic container full of pig's blood from a nearby Vietnamese market. It was a frozen bloodsicle when he bought it, but the midday sun seems to have melted it down completely. The last bag holds a clear pink Dora the Explorer water bottle. He hesitated at the cartoon characters, but it was on the clearance table, and that's four dollars more he can spend on dollar draft specials later.

He had thought of Mica, an extra one had then been purchased for her birthday. _Gods, don't mix them up_.

He unscrews the lid of the bright pink squeeze bottle, and then spreads the plastic bag under it. With a careful hand, he peels the taped lid off the pig's blood and pours it into the water bottle. The thick liquid smells like metal and coats the sides of the bottle. A few solid chunks of ice fall in with a plop as he pours.

A thunderous crack explodes through the hum of cicadas. A jolt runs down his spine. He feels the unmistakable wet sensation on his leg as he jerks to look for the source of the sound. When he looks back, he's managed to splatter the blood all over the bags and his favourite pair of jeans.

"Dammit!" Ianto swears. "Come on, Dora, get your shit together."

He dumps the remaining blood into the water bottle, and then screws the cap on. He uses his foot to hook a discoloured towel stuffed in the corner under the toolbox. The once-white towel is now sort of tiger-striped in yellow and brown, with a stiffness that's better to not ponder too closely. It's a literal biohazard, and it's probably about time for it to find a new home in a Dumpster. He wouldn't even risk the potential biological apocalypse by trying to wash it. After using one relatively clean spot to wipe the bottle's sides, he kicks it back under the toolbox and makes a mental note to steal a towel from the next motel. He examines his pants. "This is all Owen's fault."

Owen is a hunter from Torchwood too. To say that he isn't all there is to make a gross understatement. If he was rich, people would call him eccentric, but unfortunately for Owen, he's dirt poor and relegated to weird. And that's being charitable. First of all, he's a grown-ass man who calls himself Doctor Owen, which should explain it all. Second of all, he hunts in a pair of Mickey Mouse ears with a .22-sized hole in the right ear. He swears they're his good luck charm. Ianto thinks its bullshit, but he's thirty-three and still kicking, so maybe Owen's got something going. Not many Hunters live past thirty. Ianto and Jack are an anomaly there, Rhiannon retiring in her early twenties. It's probably more likely that even the Others recognize that a grown man with a shotgun and a pair of mouse ears has nothing left to lose.

But Owen fancies himself an expert on Weevils, and based on his run-ins with him, he's not far off the mark. He also fancies himself an expert on women, which is so far off the mark as to be utterly delusional.

Hey, no one's perfect.

In any case, he came out here last night looking for trouble. He found it, in the form of a Weevil on the opposite end of the park. Weevils are just nasty. Well, just about everything he encounters in relation to hunting is nasty, but Weevils are on the high end of that spectrum. They'll eat anything made out of meat, and they're the personification of the saying, "You are what you eat."

The Weevil he found last night was strange, even by Weevil standards. It was still more or less Weevil-looking, but its face was elongated, and its dirty fingers were furry and ended in gnarled claws. Considering the reports of mutilated pets around the area, this one had probably been eating a steady diet of cute and furry creatures. He put an arrow through its skull, though he was too late to spare the poor calico cat it had eaten as a midnight snack.

As soon as he'd determined that Bute Park had a Weevil problem, he gave Owen a call for advice. A few years before they met, he'd had a nasty run-in with a Weevil that put him in the hospital and almost put him in an early grave.

So when he'd stumbled on a nest of Weevils two years back he'd called Jack. He was tied down with their pregnancy, but he'd given him Owen's number and told him he was "an odd duck, but he knows his shit."

They'd met at a bowling alley in a rundown strip mall. For a small town, the bar and grill at the bowling alley was hopping. Blaring country music from the jukebox in the bar clashed with the rhythmic percussion of bowling balls and clattering pins.

"See, Weevils are funny," Owen said, leaning over his basket of cheese fries. This was before he put on the mouse ears, when he thought Jack might have been overstating things. "Town like this? You ain't gonna be dealing with a Weevil most likely."

"Why's that?"

"Too big," Owen said. He picked up his knife and fork and neatly cut the cheese fries into bite-sized pieces. He speared one, dipped it into the side of ranch dressing, then daintily put it in his mouth.

"Scat's too big?" Ianto watched him in fascination.

 _Who the hell eats cheese fries like that?_

He finished chewing, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin before speaking again.

"But specific—sadistic—statistically speaking, you're looking at two options when talking about Weevils." He held up one finger, glassy eyes locked on his. "First, a one-stoplight town where they can get 'em a good bellyful and then skedaddle off to the woods and eat wildlife till they get a hankering for long pig again."

"Long pig?"

Owen grabbed his gut. "The other red meat," he said.

"People burgers. Manwich, if you will. Get it?"

"Yes, I get it," Ianto said drily. "Ugh. You said two places. What's the other?"

"Real big cities."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does," Owen said. "See, you can hide in a big city like London. Specially one with a whole bunch of bums. See, you and me would know right away if a Weevil walked in here. They smell, and they just don't look right. But if a Weevil finds itself a homeless shelter somewhere? It can eat for months. It may not pass for a prim-and-proper schoolteacher, but it can sure pass for a drunk wino who ain't bathed in a while. Plus, nobody's gonna look real hard when a bum disappears off the streets. In and out of the sewer system like big bitey killy rats"

"That's terrible."

"I know it is," Owen said. "I ain't sayin' it's right. But that's how people are."

He pulled up the bottom of his _Female Body Inspector_ T-shirt to expose his fish-white belly.

"Owen, put that shit away," Ianto said. "I'm trying to eat."

"Please man, you can't handle all this. Your piece of eye candy at home is soft. I spent two weeks in the sewers of this shithole last year huntin' down a whole pack of 'em." It was hard to see in the low light of the bowling alley, but Ianto could make out the ridged lines of scar tissue under a mat of peach fuzz. Something had clawed Owen pretty good.

"I'm still not sure I got all of 'em," he said, and for the first time, his expression looked troubled.

"How can ya tell, you know?" He drained his beer and smiled. "Guess you just gotta do your best."

That was all any of them could hope to do. Once Ianto'd figured out what he was dealing with last night, he slept on it and gave Owen a call in the morning. After hemming and hawing, he recommended an old-fashioned bait and trap. Weevils weren't particular about eating fresh and organic; they were just as happy eating a ready-dead corpse as they were hunting their own. He told him to let it get good and rotten, and then to leave a blood trail to wherever he wanted to stage his takedown. Hot and human was best, but unless he wanted to cut himself open, pig or cow would do.

Owen offered to jump in his truck and help him out, but he wasn't inclined to wait, nor to admit that he might need some backup. Advice, yes. Backup, not so much.

Plus, he'd been burned by his last partner. For better or worse, he was on his own. Since Lisa he had only trusted Jack who was benched until little Charlie started sleepovers. Jack could drop the little man off to Rhiannon if he really needed someone, but he would rather leave him with the kid.

Ianto closes his eyes. "Gods, please keep me safe on this hunt. Help me find these bastards—sorry—these things before they hurt anybody else. And please help me not get arrested, because nobody's gonna bail me out this time. Amen."

He slings his crossbow over his shoulder, and then jumps down from the truck. It's getting dark now, and the musical hum of the cicadas in the trees has taken on a sinister note. He twists the end of his Maglite to send a bright white beam in front of him and heads into the construction area.

His inner child squeals with glee at the sight of the excavated dirt pile. It's a mountain of red clay that demands to be scaled and claimed in the name of Ianto Harkness-Jones. Once upon a time, he and his sister would have scrambled up its sides, tussled briefly but viciously for dominion, and then agreed to a dual kingdom as they pelted the neighbour kids with rocky dirt clods. Because even if they couldn't agree who was _really_ Queen of the

Big Red Mountain, it sure as hell wasn't going to be anyone but them. Once the neighbours were no longer a threat, they could resume plotting to take each other out.

He smiles a little as he shakes his head, and then skirts around the dirt pile. Rhiannon would be laughing at that memory, Ianto the biggest queen of them both now I guess. Charlie would love digging his little hands into the dirt. Lovely little stinker, his Dam's smile always reduces his Taddy to a simpering fool. He loves his son so damned much.

Just beyond the pile is a flat clearing, with a pattern of tire treads in the reddish-brown dirt. They're levelling out the area for the new amphitheatre. There are footprints everywhere, but one set cuts away at an angle and continues into the woods.

He goes to the closest print. It looks like something has been dragging its feet across the ground. The dragging steps disappear into the woods that border the park. He sighs. Because of course, he's going to have to go into the deep, dark woods.

This kind of thing happens a lot these days. Some new development or construction uproots something that ought to stay in the ground, and then they've got a mess on their hands. It's not his usual kind of gig, but he was in the area. If there's one thing hunters have in common, other than unusually high rates of alcoholism and divorce, it's an inability to walk away from a fight.

There's a trick he and his sister pulled once before on a revenant (Zombie) that was terrorizing hapless tourists down in the Swamp a few years back. Before her own kids came along of course. Rhiannon is retired now. Anyway …They didn't want to find themselves in the middle of a swamp wrestling an alligator and a reanimated corpse at the same time. Once they'd laid eyes on it, they taunted it on a chase back to a campground, where they had the advantage of light, flat terrain, and a picnic table laid out with weapons.

Combined with Owen's tips, he has a pretty solid plan.

Ianto ponders the flat red clearing for a minute, and then gets an undeniably brilliant idea. He runs back to his truck and digs a bottle of lighter fluid out of the toolbox.

He pours it deliberately on the ground, walking in a wide circle. After seeing the "ring of fire" trick on TV a dozen times, he's been itching to try it. A Weevil trap is the perfect opportunity.

After he sets the lighter fluid aside, Ianto wrinkles his nose and wraps his hand carefully in one of the discarded grocery bags. The smell leaks out of the bag as he unwraps the spoiled steaks, holding the tray in his bagged hand.

"Good lord, that's foul," he says, trying not to breathe through his nose.

With his free hand, he draws his knife and slices down the middle of the tray, then across each reeking slab of meat. A flick of the sharp blade pushes half a dozen chunks of gray-green meat to the ground in the middle of the circle.

Bute Park is a city park that spreads over a couple of acres with a tiny lake at the centre. A walking trail forms a full loop around the park, with a fork in the road that disappears into the thickly forested woods in the northeast part of the park. The new construction cuts into the edge of the woods, and he found the Weevil last night on the opposite end, where the trail re-emerges from the trees.

Ianto takes a deep breath and sheathes his knife, then takes out the squeeze bottle full of pig's blood. He tentatively walks toward the woods, sprinkling the blood on the ground behind him like Gretel gone vampire. When he gets to the edge, he drops another chunk of the rotted meat in the middle of the path.

The walking trail forks here, with a narrow asphalt path disappearing under a dark canopy.

Up to here, he can still see the white glow of the streetlamps in the parking lot. Beyond, the woods are dark and deep, swallowing the light in a wall of shadow. He manoeuvres his flashlight into his hand with the squeeze bottle and takes his first tentative step into the dark. He pauses here, with his heart starting to pound as his instincts rise.

This is where training and experience have to override common sense. Most halfway intelligent people would look at this, get the very distinct and very probable _creepy fairytale forest with cannibal witches inside_ vibe, and skedaddle off to somewhere well-lit and dead-bolted.

Not Ianto.

He's not sure whether it makes him really stupid or really brave.

Probably a bit of both.

The Weevils are either gone or entirely too skittish to take the bait. This had better work, because he doesn't have the time or energy to go crashing through the woods in hopes that he just stumbles upon a nest.

He's got one chunk of rotted steak left when he completes the half-mile loop back to the dirt pile. While he's not exactly afraid of the dark, he breathes a sigh of relief when he gets back onto the main walking trail and in sight of the lights near the construction site. He cuts across the levelled clearing and dumps the empty meat tray in a trashcan next to the orange plastic fence.

"Ugh," he groans after giving his hand a tentative sniff. He's not a germaphobe, but he'd shank someone for a bottle of hand sanitizer right about now.

But the lingering stink of spoiled meat is quickly forgotten. With a smile, he climbs up the side of the dirt pile and stands at the top, surveying the tire tread-marked landscape. For the tiniest moment, he's little and innocent, and nothing in the world is scary. It's been a very long time since he learned there really _might_ be monsters under the bed, but there really was such a time.

But he knows now, and there's no forgetting. Back to work.

He sits atop the dirt pile and settles his crossbow in his lap. If all goes well, the Weevils will converge on the bait, and he'll pick them off one at a time. The crossbow is virtually silent, so he doesn't have to worry about London's finest getting in his way.

The night sky is dark and clear, and the cicadas fade into a droning hum. The summer heat has lost its edge, and it's just warm, with a slight breeze blowing. Balmy, he thinks. If he was sitting on the back porch of a beach house instead of a dirt pile overlooking Weevil-infested woods, it'd be downright pleasant.

One of these days, he'll take a real break from this life.

Let someone else do the heavy lifting for a few days while he gets away to rest and clear his head for a while. He hasn't stopped moving in months, like he's chasing something that's always out of reach. Problem is, he's not sure what it is.

Jack is usually forgiving but even he is starting to comment on the nights spent out hunting when the little fella is teething.

He sighs and shakes his head. Mid-hunt is not the time for navel-gazing. He shifts his position so he's got one leg out, ready to use his foot to reload the crossbow. Soon enough, the first of the Weevils shuffles out of the woods. Its dark clothes hang in shreds from flabby flesh.

The clothes could be a dark suit, meaning it was probably male once upon a time. From this distance, he can't make out any distinct features, and even if he could, they may not be the ones the Weevil came out with.

Boys wear dull grey, girls orange. At first … from … wherever. Jack sometimes talks of a rift, a little window between worlds, like some door between alternate universes… of course he's usually drunk at the time. Lovely man.

The Weevil looks around slowly, cringing at the light.

Then it perks, and stoops to pick up a piece of meat. As it does, a smaller Weevil in a shabby gray dress comes up beside it and swipes for the bait. Daddy Weevil makes a low growling sound and bats it. Little Weevil hisses, then turns as she catches the scent of something better. She moves quicker now, walking over the wet line of lighter fluid toward the pile of rotten bait.

"That's right, yum yums," Ianto murmurs. Pride wells up in him as the pieces of his plan fall neatly into place.

He raises his crossbow, bracing the stock against his shoulder, and targets the small Weevil. Little Weevil grabs a handful of rotten steak in each dirty hand. Ianto's sight centres on one tiny ear.

He pauses.

Judging by its size, the Weevil was just a child. Little Weevil was someone's beloved baby. Ianto shudders. This is not the time to think about those things.

He squeezes the trigger.

The bolt pierces Little Weevil's ear, leaving only neon green flight feathers blooming from the skull like a weed. Her hands fly open, sending her snack flying. Little Weevil crumples to her knees and pitches forward into the dirt.

With practiced movements, Ianto hooks the metal crossbow stirrup over his foot, yanks the string back, and locks it into the trigger box. He draws another bolt smoothly and loads it into the flight track. With a slow exhale, he centres his sight on Daddy Weevil. His crosshairs line up on one cloudy eye.

Easy.

Something whacks him hard in the back, and he goes tumbling down the side of the dirt pile. The crossbow bounces after him, banging against his thigh as he slides all the way down the hill. He rolls awkwardly and comes up on his knees. There's another Weevil standing on top of the pile. It also wears a dark suit.

Grampy Weevil, maybe.

"Losing my edge," he mutters. He looks back over his shoulder to see Daddy Weevil examining the green flight feathers emerging from his child's chest.

Damn. So much for the perfect plan.

Daddy Weevil lurches toward him, and he scrambles to his feet. He flips the crossbow backward and slams the butt of it into the Weevil's dirty, distended face. The Weevil's head snaps back and it reels drunkenly with black blood leaking from its nose. Ianto sprints across his circle and digs in his pocket for his lighter. He flicks the plastic lighter and crouches to touch the flame to the circle of fluid.

A ring of fire bursts up around the Weevil, and it recoils.

At a staggering six inches high, it's nothing like the satisfying hellfire he envisioned. But it's plenty to startle Daddy Weevil and make him cringe in fear. On the other side of the flames, he plants his foot to reload the crossbow. As he locks the string in place, he watches Grampy Weevil skidding down the dirt pile.

He loads a new bolt and fires on Daddy Weevil inside the ring of fire. In a movie version of Ianto's life, there would be dramatic music in the background, and the sleek feather flight feathers would catch fire as they passed through the inferno. In slow motion, of course. Sadly, the arrow passes through boring, normal air and pierces Daddy Weevil's eye. He spins in a circle before doing a face plant in the dirt.

Grampy Weevil runs around the ring of fire at Ianto. His stomach clenches in a knot. Split-second decision. He can't reload in time. Rapid-fire, he considers his options.

The Colt will drop Grampy, but it'll most certainly get the cops out here. Knife is wicked sharp, but requires him to be a lot closer to the Weevil than he wants to be.

No sense in changing a good thing.

As Grampy Weevil rushes him, he does an awkward sidestep, then slams the crossbow's stock into the side of his head. He reels, and he hits him again in the back.

"Come on Harkness-Jones, move your arse," he says as he fumbles to pull back the string.

The Weevil roars at him and starts to pick himself up again. Ianto rears back and kicks him hard, snapping one bony elbow with a meaty crunch. Grampy shrieks and grasps at his broken joint. Ianto takes the opportunity to slide another bolt into the flight track.

Grampy Weevil pushes himself up on his good arm, casting a baleful glare at him. The light glints off his cloudy eyes, giving him a nice shiny target. The light goes out when the bolt bursts through his eye. Grampy flattens. He watches him warily, reloading the crossbow while he's got the time.

"One," he murmurs as he pulls the string back.

"Two." After a painfully slow count to ten, he raises the crossbow and tiptoes forward. His heart thumps. He nudges his side with his foot. He yanks the crossbow up, ready to fire if he pulls the classic _dead dude sits up_ jump scare.

But he doesn't budge.

Ianto slings the crossbow strap over his shoulder and lets it hang by his side. He does a slow patrol around the dirt pile, scanning the area for another straggler. Grampy snuck right up on him, and it's not out of the realm of possibility that he missed another one.

He's a good hunter, but nowhere close to perfect.

But the only sound he hears is the music of the cicadas. There's no movement in the trees. Even the air is still and heavy with the lingering summer heat.

Ianto glances back over his shoulder.

Sure would be nice for a little rain.

He crouches and grabs Grampy Weevil's ankles. His leg feels like a tube of sausage under tattered fabric, and something wet leaks over Ianto's hand. His throat clenches up, and he tries not to think about whatever is running down his fingers. He drags the body backward toward the truck. Right about now is when he could use Owen's help.

It's tempting to just leave them here.

Just in the two minutes it takes him to drag the big Weevil to the back end of his truck, he's already half-deflated like a waterbed with a hole in it. But it still takes some time and leaves a suspicious gooey stain. Besides, he's not confident that they'll burn up completely before someone happens by the park. It'll be just his luck that a couple kids come to make out, find three burning corpses, and really cement the serial killer theory. Instead, he'll drive them out of town, find a nice place to stop, and take care of business there.

As he manhandles the first Weevil up into the truck, it occurs to him that there's a disturbing amount of overlap between his skill set and that of a damn serial killer. The world is lucky that his kind of crazy makes him tend toward bad choices in hunting garb and embarrassing karaoke, not ritual murder.

By the time he gets the three Weevils loaded into the back of his truck and covered in a tarp, he's dripping with sweat and greyish muck that smells like gasoline and rotten Dumpster. He's tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a shower.

And his damn pants are ruined.

...

Ianto wads up a handful of scratchy brown paper towels and plugs the sink, then turns on the cold water.

While the sink fills, he shakes a generous layer of meat tenderizer onto the bloodstains. For once, the blood's not his. One would think that would make more of a difference, but his level of irritation is actually the same at having to scrub it out of his clothes.

It was a pretty smooth hunt, except for the little hiccup with Grampy. If his sister had seen that third Weevil sneak up on him, Ianto would never hear the end of it. But his sister isn't around anymore, and that's all right with him.

Ianto's doing fine on his own, anyway. No injuries, no cops. It's been a decent night. Well, except for his pants.

He sprinkles cold water onto the tenderizer, and then works it with his fingers until it makes a thick, grainy paste.

As he grinds it into the stained fibres, his pocket starts buzzing. He dries one hand quickly on his sweatpants and answers it. "Owen?"

"You take out them Weevils?" he drawls.

"Yeah, just finished," he says. He tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and then grabs a paper towel to scrub at the bloodstains. "I'm just trying to clean up."

"What, the bodies? Why didn't you just burn them?"

"It was in a public park," he says. The red is lifting, making a foamy paste that looks like bloody toothpaste suds. "I was afraid someone was going to show up. They already think they've got a serial killer in this town."

"You know, serial killers are really rare," Owen says.

"Hey, what are you wearing?"

"Jesus, Owen," he says. This is the other reason he didn't want to call Owen for backup. "Baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt from Louie's Fat Bottom Barbecue."

"That's not sexy," he says. "Like, at all."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint." he dips the edge of his pants in the sink, rinses it vigorously, and then examines it. "Hey, it's working."

"Not for me," Owen says. "Tosh will be relieved to learn she still has my attention."

"What? No, you perv," he says. "I'm trying to get blood out of my pants before it sets."

Someone clears their throat, but it's not him or Owen.

Ianto's stomach plunges to the floor. He looks up to see a wide-eyed woman in the mirror's reflection. Ianto's blood goes cold. How much did she hear?

"I gotta go," Ianto says quietly, wiping one hand on his sweatpants. He hangs up the phone and jams it into his pocket, then turns to the woman.

She's maybe forty, with dark circles under wide brown eyes. A Subway Store nametag that reads _Diane_ is pinned to her untucked white blouse, and she's got a death grip on something inside her purse. Ianto's got three guesses

what, and he doesn't want any of them pointed at him. "I know what this looks like."

"I—I didn't," the woman stammers. "I don't…"

Ianto shakes his head. "Oh, no, this isn't mine."

Diane's eyes go even wider.

"No, no, it's not human," Ianto says. "It's from a pig."

That doesn't seem to help matters. Without breaking her deer-in-the-headlights gaze, Diane reaches backward for the door. Ianto lunges for it. His hand knocks Diane's away and closes around the handle. He cannot have this woman go out into the Laundromat hollering about what she thinks she heard.

"Let me out!" Diane says. Her white shirt is dotted with faint red stains. Ianto must have splattered her in her dash for the door. She yanks on the door, and Ianto backs up into it, planting his feet.

"I know what this looks like," Ianto says. "I promise it's not what you think."

"Fine, you didn't hurt anyone. So let me out."

"Not until you promise not to call the cops on me," Ianto says. Shit. Shit. Why didn't he lock the damn door?

"I'm not gonna call the cops."

"Then give me your phone."

Diane wrinkles her nose. "Screw you."

This situation is going bad, and fast. If there's a manual somewhere on how to make a situation go from bad to worse, then Ianto is doing this completely by the book.

He doesn't have his mate's gift for smooth talking, but he usually does all right. That said starting the situation by being caught literally red-handed and talking about burning bodies in a public park is not ideal. Now he's improvising, and that's about as certain as Russian Roulette.

Ianto lunges for Diane's purse. It takes him less than three seconds to realize that this is a mistake.

The fear goes out of Diane's eyes, replaced by predatory instinct. Diane grabs his arm, lets out a karate noise, and slings Ianto around into the cinderblock wall.

Ianto's head rocks back against the wall, and he sees a flash of white as pain bursts from the base of his neck. His vision blurs. Through the ringing in his ears, he makes out the scrape of the door as Diane flees.

"Dammit," Ianto groans. He grabs for the door and chases Diane out into the Laundromat.

Diane's already on her phone as she hurries through the room. As the woman walks, she grabs for a purple mesh bag from the folding table. In a tiny moment of providence, the strap snags on the corner of the table.

Diane stops to untangle it.

 _Thank you, Gods,_ Ianto thinks. He rushes around the table and grabs the other handle of Diane's bag. Her eyes flit around wildly. The attendant is still engrossed in his phone. She can barely see his head over the change machine.

"Let go," Diane says. She pulls back on the laundry bag. "I don't want trouble. I just want to go home."

"I can't let you do that," Ianto says, twisting the strap around his hand. Good lord, could he sound more like a murderer now?

Diane sticks her free hand into her purse. "I'm warning you."

"Warn away," Ianto snaps. "You start shooting up this place and the cops are gonna question you, not me."

Ianto peeks around to look out the windows for flashing lights. It's a quiet night out there and if Diane called about a psycho at the Laundromat, it won't take long. Oh, shit. He should have known it wouldn't be so smooth.

"I'll scream," Diane says. "Let go."

"Don't," Ianto says. But it's not because he's worried about the attendant, or even the cops now. Something else has caught his eye. He puts one finger to his lips. "Shh."

"Screw you." But Diane's brow furrows, and her head turns ever so slightly, like she wants to see what Ianto's looking at but doesn't want to take her eyes away.

There's a shadow moving outside.

The front face of the Laundromat is all glass, which gives a splendid view of the parking lot. A couple of cars are parked against the curb, with the neon _24 Hours_ sign reflecting off their hoods. His big red pickup is parked right next to the handicapped spot. Standing in the striped unloading zone is a humanoid figure, peering over the edge of the truck bed. It's standing in the shadows just right, so Diane can make out its silhouette but not its features. Even so, she'll bet her meager stash of cash that it's not human.

"Diane, I know this is some crazy shit," Ianto says quietly. "But I need you to trust me."

Hunters have an unspoken rule. You don't tell people about what's really out there. Everyone who watches a zombie movie develops their own idea of who they'd be in the zombie apocalypse. And everyone fancies themselves the badass with a sawed-off. No one admits they'd be part of the screaming, fleeing masses. He's seen it half a dozen times. In the face of a real-life monster, in all its clawing smell-o-vision glory, most normal people turn to Jell-O. And when they survive the encounter, thanks to people like him, there's no unseeing it. They'll never sleep the same, and Halloween becomes a whole barrel of traumatized monkeys.

Then again, is it better for Diane to think Ianto's a serial killer who's going to come back for her, or for her to know that things really _do_ go bump in the night? Both options suck.

What would his mate do?

Well, for starters, his mate would probably have been a hell of a lot smoother with the bloody jeans. Or he would have locked the damn door in the first place. Really, how hard is that?

Suddenly, a sharp pain blooms in his hand and jerks him out of his self-reproach. Ianto jerks away and looks up in disbelief to see Diane with her keys grasped tightly and one of them dripping red. The woman grabs her laundry bag and throws the door open.

Well, he may not know how his mate would handle it, but Ianto knows for damn sure that his mate wouldn't stand there and let Diane stab him. Jack will crow for days about this 'war wound'

Ianto can't help but stare at the back of his hand, which now has its own shallow keyhole right between his first two knuckles. He managed to take out four Weevils, counting the one last night, and it's the cashier with self-defence training who finally puts a hole in him.

A shriek comes from the parking lot. Diane is frozen with her laundry clutched in one hand. The bag is flopped open, spilling her dirty underwear onto the sidewalk.

Ianto rushes out the door and into the parking lot.

"I tried to tell you," he says petulantly.

"What the hell is that?"

Their visitor has climbed up into his truck now, and one hand is curled over the edge. Judging by the greyish, gore-streaked face, it's another Weevil. His bait had worked, all right. This one is just a slowpoke. Judging by the sack-like orange it's wearing, this is Mama Weevil.

"It's a Weevil," Ianto says, edging past Diane. He snaps his fingers at the creature. "Hey, you. Yeah, over here."

Her head snaps up, and Mama Weevil hisses at him like a big cat. The neon Laundromat sign reflects blood-red off her cloudy eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" Diane hisses.

"This is what I do. Diane, you got two options. You can go inside where it's safe, or you can stay out here and help me."

The Weevil watches Ianto intently as he moves his hand slowly like teasing a dog with a treat. His gun is locked inside the truck, because he's a damn responsible gun owner. But his crossbow is about two feet from where the Weevil is standing.

"I'll help," Diane says. "I kinda feel bad that I stabbed you."

"You really should. That was an asshole move," Ianto says.

The Weevil starts to climb toward him, hitching one leg up to come over the edge. He makes a quick lunge toward the Weevil, a ' _you wanna fight?'_ move pulled straight from the Fighting for High School Boys manual. Mama Weevil shrinks away and goes clambering over the other side.

He digs in his pocket and throws his keys backward at Diane's feet. "In the glove box, there's a .45. If things get hairy and it comes back here, you shoot it. Then get the hell away from my truck, or they'll have questions that you definitely can't answer."

Diane digs in her purse and pulls out a small revolver. Called out. "Don't worry, I got my own."

"Damn, Diane. You ride dirty," Ianto says. He grabs the edge of the truck bed and hauls himself up into it. The black plastic tarps are pulled back, and there's a big hunk missing out of Daddy Weevil's arm. A wave of decay hits him like a billow of steam from a boiling pot. He dry heaves and kicks the plastic back over the body. After grabbing the crossbow, he climbs over the other side of the truck and chases the Weevil.

The Laundromat is on one end of a small strip mall bordering Bute Park. One of the entrances to the walking trail starts just across the street, which is probably how Mama Weevil found her way here. Mama moves fast now, disappearing around the corner of the Laundromat and down the alley behind the strip.

Ianto jams his foot into the stirrup of the crossbow and yanks the string back. As he loads a new bolt into the flight track, he watches the Weevil intently. It's not quite running, but doing a weird lopsided gallop toward the safety of the dark woods.

He hitches up his baggy sweatpants with one hand and takes off running, crossbow braced in the other hand. _Damn it, these are Jack's pair_.

"Hey!" he shouts.

Mama Weevil hisses, then turns to run at a sharp angle.

Ianto freezes, aims, and squeezes the trigger. The bolt pierces her jowly neck, and Mama Weevil roars. She stops her retreat and turns toward Ianto. He checks the quiver.

Empty.

Shit.

He shouldn't have left the gun with Diane. Especially since she's packing heat of her own. _This is a bad idea,_ he thinks as she runs at Mama Weevil. A hot rush of adrenaline washes over him.

The Weevil swipes at him with one filthy hand. Ianto ducks and kicks out the Weevil's leg. Mama Weevil falls to her knees. With a swing of the crossbow, Ianto clips her under the chin. Mama Weevil swipes at him again and gets a handful of his dingy T-shirt. He ignores it and grabs the grip on the crossbow bolt, then yanks backward.

There's a squelching sound as the bolt slides out of the Weevil's saggy flesh. Mama Weevil screeches. Ianto drops the crossbow and tries to ignore the scrape of the beautiful weapon hitting the asphalt. He plants his hands on the Weevil's shoulders and bears it to the ground. His fingers press into soft, damp flesh. His skin crawls at the sensation. Mama Weevil's jaws snap, and she lets out a snarl of hot breath that smells like a compost heap.

With one hand planted on Mama Weevil's forehead, Ianto raises the bolt high with the other, then stabs it down into the Weevil's eye. Clammy hands beat at him, but he puts his weight behind the bolt and finally feels the hard scrape of the tip against bone. The Weevil suddenly stops moving. Ianto leans back to rest on his heels.

From behind him, he hears the familiar and unpleasant _whoop whoop_ of a police siren. His stomach twists into a knot as he glances over his shoulder. There's no one here yet, but he sees the blue and red lights reflecting around the side of the Laundromat.

He looks down at Mama Weevil, then back at the lights. Shit. His heart races and he suddenly feels the hot, claustrophobic sensation of panic pressing in. he can only run so far, and the cops are not going to look kindly at the dead body of something that still resembles a human being. Even worse, if Mama Weevil's eaten any people lately, she might well be DNA'd to a missing persons case. And then Ianto will really have some splainin' to do.

There's a Dumpster about thirty feet away behind a red door with a _Daffid's Cafe_ sign on it.

"Shit the bed," he mutters. He scrambles around on the ground and gets his arms under the Weevil's armpits.

With a grunt, he pulls it backward toward Daffid's Dumpster. The Weevil's ratty slipper falls off as he drags it.

Sweat beads on his back.

World's worst workout.

Ianto finally gets to the Dumpster and slumps against it, breathing hard. He looks down the back alley. Lights are still flashing, and he hears the sound of a police radio. His heart thumps. _Move it. You got no time._

Metal scrapes as he shoves open the Dumpster's side panel. He crouches, then lurches upward.

"Lift with your legs," he grunts to himself. He gets Mama Weevil on her feet, head lolling into his chest. A dribble of black runs down her face and onto Ianto's shirt. he shakes his head. "Ugh."

He pushes back on Mama Weevil's chest, then reaches down to loop his arm under her legs. He flips the Weevil's body up, legs shaking with the effort of lifting the dead weight. Finally, gravity takes over, and the Weevil tips back into the Dumpster. There's a meaty _thump_ , then an echoing _clang_ as the Weevil's head smacks the metal side.

He peeks inside. It's empty. Must have been trash day today. Maybe he can burn this one without catching the attention of the whole damn town.

Ianto scrubs sweat off his face and runs back down the alley. Along the way, he scoops up the crossbow and leans it against the back of the Laundromat. He jogs around the edge of the building just in time to get a flashlight in his face.

"Sir?" a male voice says. "Can I ask what you're doing back here?"

He winces and throws up one hand. It stings against the sweat on his forehead. As he shields his eyes, he traces the red trickle of blood down his forearm and prays the cop doesn't notice. "Uh, I was just sneaking a cigarette while my clothes were in the washer."

"Really?" he says. His flashlight runs over him, and he knows he's looking to see where he might have a gun concealed. "Are you Mr. Harkness-Jones?"

"Don't think so."

"Listen, how about you do me a favour and come around front with me." His voice is light and easy, but his free hand rests lightly on the gun at his hip.

"Okay," he says. _Shit, shit._ His stomach is a whirlpool of dread. He needs an airtight story. Problem is, he doesn't know what Diane told them. Obviously got his name from the laundry bag. _Shit, shit_.

The cop walks right next to him. "You doin' all right?"

"Can't complain, Officer," he says flatly. He freezes in his tracks as they round the edge of the building.

The police cruiser is parked in the spot right next to the handicapped spot with its normal headlights on. It takes him a long pause to realize his truck is gone from the parking lot. He gapes at it. _What the hell?_

Diane's purple laundry bag is still on the sidewalk, but the spilled clothes have been stuffed inside. Diane herself is nowhere to be found. Ianto peeks over his shoulder into the Laundromat. There's another cop inside the building. He's speaking to the attendant, whose giant headphones hang around his neck. As the cop speaks, he just shrugs and shakes his head. His eyes are wide, and he's probably thinking "Oh shit, oh shit."

 _You and me both._

"How about you just have a seat on the curb for me, Mister," the officer says. In the light, he gets a better glimpse at him. His name tag says _Davidson_. He's got a smooth baby face that's kind of cute. Well, it would be if he wasn't on the verge of taking him downtown, and not in a let's-have-a-beer-or-five kind of way.

Ianto sits down on the curb, sneaking a peek at his clothes. At least there's no noticeable blood. There's some Weevil leakage, but it looks like he spilled motor oil on himself. He casually folds his arms over his chest, scrubbing the drip of blood from his hand onto his shirt.

"Did you see anything strange going on in the Laundromat?" Davidson asks.

"No, sir," he says. "I generally try to mind my own business."

"That's funny. We got a call saying there was a tall gentleman well kept hair here who was acting real strange." He shines the light on him. "Sounds like that could be you, don't you think?"

"Lots of tall gentlemen who care about their appearance in the world," he says. He laughs, and it sounds hollow and manic to him. "Plus, anyone who's been around me for more than a couple of minutes wouldn't make the mistake of calling me a gentleman."

Davidson just raises his eyebrows. He's not buying one tiny bit of his bullshit. "So you didn't see anything?"

"No, sir," he says. Unless you count car theft. Where the hell is his truck?

Davidson shifts uncomfortably. The Laundromat door swings open, letting out the dull white noise of washers running. The other cop comes out to flank his partner. She stares at him. "This the perp?"

"Whoa, I am not a perp," Ianto says.

"What'd he say?"

"Kid didn't see anything," the partner says. She's a head shorter than Davidson, with big tits and a gap in her teeth that Ianto is unable to look away from no matter how hard he tries. Those tits strain against her uniform shirt. Her nametag says Cooper. "What's your name?"

Moment of truth. he's still not sure they're going to arrest him. "Chrys."

"Chrys what?" Davidson asks.

"Dupree," he says. Chrys an old family friend, and Dupree is Ianto's mother's maiden name. Easy to remember.

"You got some ID, Chrys?" Cooper says.

 _Dammit._ "Not on me." he's got to get a fake ID one of these days.

Cooper steps down from the curb, looking down at him with arms folded across her large chest. "All right. You been drinkin', sweetheart?"

"I wish," he says. "I'm sorry. Inappropriate."

"Officers, I called you," Diane says in a breathless voice. Her oversized purse bounces against her side as she jogs down the sidewalk. She's coming from the opposite end of the strip mall, which makes no sense. "I am so sorry to waste your time."

"Ms. Bouchard?"

"That's me," Diane says, smoothing a wisp of dark hair back.

"Ma'am, you reported a disturbance here. Said someone was trying to rob you," Cooper says. "Are you all right?"

Diane lets out a fake laugh.

"Gosh, I'm so sorry," she says. "See, I work at the Subway store that got robbed last month. Did you see the news?"

"Yeah, I worked the case," Davidson says. He frowns at her.

"So I've been real jumpy ever since then," Diane says.

Well, that explained the little six-shooter in her purse. "So I came by to do my laundry tonight, and I bumped into this young man."

"Is that true?" Cooper says, looking at Ianto.

Diane meets his eyes, then gives him a faint nod.

Ianto watches her for a moment.

"Yes, sir," he says hesitantly.

Davidson tips his head. His brow furrows, and he's starting to look irritated.

"Dispatcher said you were panicked. Said someone tried to rob you, and then wouldn't let you leave."

Diane shakes her head and roots in her purse, then holds up her car keys.

"I had dropped my keys in the bathroom," she says. "This young man was just trying to give them back to me, and I just freaked out. After the robbery at work, I thought he was trying to attack me."

"That true?" Cooper says.

"Yes, sir," Ianto says. "I was just trying to be helpful."

The officers stare at them for a long stretch, and then Davidson shrugs.

"Well, I'm glad you're all right," he finally says. "And Ms. Peterson, if you're still that jumpy, I might recommend doing your laundry during the day."

"Well, when I get a job that gives me some decent hours, I'll get right on that," Diane says. She glances at his shirt. "Officer Davidson."

Davidson's face falls.

Ianto bites his lip to keep from laughing.

"Have a nice night, officers," he says as they get back into the cruiser and back up. They drive away, and Ianto launches off the curb. "Holy shit, Diane. You lie like a lawyer."

"Well, I had a couple of minutes while you were gone to come up with a story," Diane says. "Plus my ex-husband was an abusive sonofabitch. I got some experience at lying to the cops."

"Man, that sucks," Ianto says. "I guess that explains why you carry the gun, huh?"

"Something like that," Diane says. She drops her keys back in her purse, and then roots around. A second later, she holds out another set of keys. This one has the familiar the familiar pocketknife dangling from the key ring. "Your truck is parked around the side of the Subway."

"You moved it?"

"Well, I knew the cops were gonna show up," she says. "And like you said, they were gonna have questions I couldn't answer. Particularly about whatever is in the bed of your truck. Once I saw that thing, I figured you must be telling the truth after all. Figured I'd give you a chance."

Ianto grabs the keys from her. He certainly didn't expect Diane to go from stabbing him with a key to being an accomplice. "Thank you. Seriously."

"So now that we've got a minute," Diane says. "What the _hell_ was that _?_ "

"You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"You're gonna have nightmares."

"Baby, I lived with a nightmare for fifteen years," Diane says. "You're gonna have to work harder than this to scare me."

Ianto shrugs. Diane's already seen it. What can it hurt? "I gotta do my laundry first. You know how to get blood out of clothing?"

Diane smiles. "I might have a secret or two."

"So it's all real," Diane says. She pauses, a pink bath towel stretched between her hands. "Zombies, ghosts, werewolves—"

"No, not werewolves," Ianto says, peering through the fingerprint-streaked glass of the dryer door. "At least, I don't think they so. I hope not."

"Vampires?"

"Most likely not. My mother thought vampire stories were just a real cleaned-up revenant." Ianto lies.

"Wait, your mother?"

"Family tradition," Ianto says.

"My family had a bowling team," Diane says. She resumes folding and adds the neat pink rectangle to her stack of mismatched towels.

"Sounds a lot safer."

"Boring," Diane replies.

The buzzer on Ianto's dryer rings out, and Ianto yanks the door open. He paws through the jumble of warm, fragrant clothes and grabs the soft jeans. They look like new, with just the faintest discoloration on the frayed hems. "Diane, you're a genius."

"WD-40," Diane says. "Hydrogen peroxide'll work too."

"Ex-husband?"

Diane nods.

Ianto raises an eyebrow and starts pulling out the rest of his laundry to fold. "You know, I could pay him a visit. I've got a bunch of redneck friends with shotguns and questionable morals. We could go scare him real good for you."

"No need," Diane says. "He can't hurt anyone anymore."

"Jail?"

"Bottom of the river," Diane replies. She calmly finishes folding her towels.

"Wait…you?" he's a little slow tonight, but Ianto's picking up what he thinks Diane's putting down. His eyes widen a little, and he lets out a nervous laugh.

Diane shrugs. "Terrible accident. But no great loss."

 _Holy shit._ "Come on. Did you do it?"

"Did I what?" Diane manoeuvres the stack of towels into her laundry bag and pushes them down to make room. "I told you, it was an accident."

Ianto nods, and then slams the dryer shut.

"You've got layers, Diane," he says. Diane would fit in just fine with his family. She might even make a good hunter. And Ianto would not make the mistake of crossing her. That was for damn sure.

"So what if these things come back?" Diane says.

"I think I got them all," Ianto says. "But if you see anything, you can give me a call."

He digs in his bag for a notepad, scribbles down his cell number, and hands it

over. "In the meantime, you keep yourself safe. If another man answers don't panic it will be my bond-mate Jack, we have no secrets."

"How do I kill it?"

"You get somewhere safe, and then you call me," Ianto says. "Don't try to be a hero. There's a lot worse out there than Weevils."

"But what if the next time I walk out of the Laundromat, there's no crazy guy to stop whatever's there?"

"Then you take that pistol out of your purse, aim for the head, and empty it," Ianto says. "Better safe than sorry."

"Now you're speaking my language," Diane says. She puts her laundry detergent back into the bag and plants her hands on her hips. "So how about you? What's next?"

"Got a lead on something out near the Barrens," Ianto says. "If I head out now, I can probably be there by morning."

"Sounds like a long night. Why don't you get some sleep and leave in the morning?"

Ianto smiles. "Gotta get a head start. I'll have all day to track it if I leave now."

"That's a hard life," Diane says. "You ever take a break?"

"My mama used to say we could sleep when we were dead," Ianto says.

"Your mama sounds like a stone-cold bitch."

"You're not wrong."

"Well, you be careful," Diane says. "Can I do anything to help you?"

Ianto slings his laundry bag over her shoulder and shakes his head. "Well, there is one thing. Wanna get breakfast first? My treat."

Ianto palms the Retcon in his pocket and laments the need for it.

He likes this one.

And her towels.

He needs one of those doesn't he?


End file.
